God Bless Us, Everyone
by ProcrastinatingPalindrome
Summary: England investigates a ghost situation on Christmas morning, and ends up having to face some of his own past Christmases.


England was well aware that the Christmas season could cause people to become a little...overexcited at times. He could even admit that every so often he was guilty of the same (although over the years he had learned to calm down. A little. At least when he was sober, and it really wasn't Christmas without spiced rum and and eggnog, was it?)

Still, he wasn't beyond feeling surprised at how extreme some people could be. He really hadn't been expecting any major fuss on that quiet Christmas morning. It had been business as usual at first, as he went about delivering gifts to human friends who's homes weren't too far by foot or carriage. Friends outside of London, human or not, would receive their gifts in the mail. Not that he was especially enthusiastic about sending gifts to a number of the nations of his list, but one had to keep up appearances. And it _was _satisfying to send off semi-valuable trinkets made in his more productive colonies, just in case France or Spain or anyone else forgot which empire they were under.

He found himself wondering what the others were doing that morning. France would probably be in the kitchens already, fussing over the meals being prepared for the day like the obnoxious food snob he was. Spain was probably still lazing about. He never was good with mornings. Russia was hibernating for all England knew or cared, and America...well. England didn't much care what America was doing either. He had made it quite plain that he wanted nothing to do with England anymore, and England was resolved to return the favor. Good riddance.

Never mind it. He wasn't about to let that lot spoil his holiday. Back to the job. From experience, he knew it was best to get his deliveries done early in the day, to leave plenty of time for his own festivities later. He would spend some time with the queen and her family, and of course that spiced rum wasn't going to drink itself.

All had gone well, until by chance he passed by a foreboding old house on a shortcut back home. At first he thought he imagined the noise, but it was unmistakable once he stopped to listen properly in the early morning quiet. There was the faint sound of shouting coming from inside. England paused, squinting up at a window that seemed to be the source. It didn't particularly sound like someone was in trouble or being attacked. The shouting sounded more...happy. But didn't that old house belong that miserly old banker, Ebenezer Scrooge? Yes, England was quite sure that drafty, uninviting mansion was his. It was hard to forget Mr. Scrooge, no matter how hard he tried. England had the misfortune of doing business with the unpleasant old bastard a few years back, when his equally unpleasant partner Marley had still been alive. He made a point to avoid him at all costs from that point on.

England had been about to ignore the noise and carry on with his business when a window was thrown open and head leaned out into the sharp winter chill. The man leaning out the window couldn't possibly be Scrooge. For one thing, he was smiling, and everyone knew Scrooge was incapable of the act. He was laughing too. Scrooge's vocal cords didn't support that kind of activity.

"Hallo!" not-Scrooge shouted down to England, who was dearly wishing he had taken a different rout. "You down there! What is today, my fine fellow?"

"Today?" England repeated incredulously. "Christmas Day, of course!"

"It's Christmas Day!" the man cried in delight. "I haven't missed it. The Spirits have done it all in one night. They can do anything they like. Of course they can. Of course they can. Hallo, my fine fellow!"

"H-Hallo?" Wonderful, just wonderful. England had an utter lunatic on his hands.

"Do you know the poulterer's, in the next street at the corner?"

Yes, England could remember passing that on his walk. "I do!" he called back, wondering if there was away to sneak off without behaving ungentlemanly.

"An intelligent boy. A remarkable boy," the man said happily to himself, and England couldn't help but bristle. "Do you know whether they've sold the prize turkey that was hanging up there - Not the little prize turkey: the big one."

"It was hanging there when I saw it last," England said. Hopefully that was the end of the conversation, and he turned to walk away when the man called out again.

"Wait, my boy! I want you to go and buy it. Go and buy it, and tell them to bring it here, that I may give them the direction where to take it. Come back with the man, and I'll give you a shilling. Come back with him in less than five minutes and I'll give you half-a-crown!"

"I don't want your money!" England tried to yell after him, but the man had already disappeared back inside. Now what? He could just ignore the request, of course...but it _was_ Christmas Day, and the insane certainly deserved a little pity before they were shipped off to Bedlam. With a long suffering sigh, England took off in the direction of the poulterer's, hoping to get the errand over as quickly as possible.

Fortunately the poulterer's was open for business and was quick about getting the enormous bird packed up and carried back to Scrooge's front doorstep, with England reluctantly trailing behind. The man from the window answered the door, made a fuss about how large the bird was, gave the poulterer directions to what England recognized as a very poor part of the city and insisted that England take the promised half-a-crown. Up close, it was much harder to deny that the man was really Ebenezer Scrooge. The long, pointed nose was certainly the same, the wiry gray hair, the bony limbs...but that smile! It made him look like a different man entirely. What could have happened to change him so much?

England felt it then, a tingle of something otherworldly drifting out the front door. He inched as close as he could without making his actions too obvious as he struggled to keep on the trail. Yes, there was something in Scrooge's house. Spirits, or ghosts perhaps, and more than one! Maybe that was the answer to the sudden change in the man. Perhaps these were a type of spirit that could drive men mad? It could be a real danger to allow that type of thing to wander around London unchecked. It warranted more investigation, and England lurked around the doorstep even after the poulterer had left, waiting for an opportunity to get inside. Luckily for him, Scrooge was already preparing to leave.

"It was wonderful to meet you, my good man!" he said happily, shaking England's hand with entirely too much enthusiasm. "I must be off now. I have so many people to speak to! Merry Christmas!"

"And the same to you," England echoed lamely before turning his attention back to the front door. Scrooge had left the door unlocked in his haste, and when England could no longer hear the old man making his way down the street, wishing merry Christmas to everyone he met, he quickly stepped inside. It was quiet and drafty in that big hollow house, but the hum of residual magic was stronger than ever.

"All right! Show yourselves!" he called to the empty house at large. "There's no sense hiding. I know there are three of you lurking around. Stop dawdling, or I'll be forced to take more drastic measures!"

He glared into the dark until the air before him before to warp and shimmer. Finally, almost sullenly, the ghosts appeared. The first was a light, airy thing, delicate and glowing. The second was far more solid, a large bearded man with fur-lined robes and a smile upon his broad face. The last was a hooded figure, ominously tall and unsettlingly silent. England had plenty of experience with all manner of spirits and spooks, but the last ghost sent a tiny shiver down his spine when he tried to look at the face hidden by the hood.

"You're awfully grumpy, lad," the bearded ghost said jovially. "Don't you know it's Christmas Day?"

"I'm aware of the date," England said sharpy, getting back to the task at hand. "And I'll thank you to not call me lad. I happen to be-"

"Over a millennium old, I know. But you are still younger than Christmas."

Well, England couldn't quite dispute that point. "Never mind my age. If you know how old I am then you must know iwhat/i I am too. And I'll let you know now, I have no problem with a few harmless spirits and poltergeists lurking about the city, but I won't stand for the type of ghosts that drive my people mad!"

"That is quite unfair," said the wispy ghost. "We haven't driven him mad at all. If anything, we have helped rid him of a madness that has plagued him almost all his life."

"I will be the judge of that," England snapped. You had to be firm with ghosts, or they'd start thinking they could get away with anything. "What exactly did the three of you do?"

"I only showed him the past," the first ghost said. "It is no crime to show a man his own memories, is it?"

"And I showed him the present," said the second. "He could have seen that if he only looked out the window. And our hooded friend can't speak," he added, elbowing the dark figure beside him, "but I can tell you that he showed our Ebenezer the future. It's always wise to look ahead, wouldn't you say? Now tell me. What have we three done wrong, truly?"

England fixed each of them with a hard look. As much as he hated to admit it, they seemed to be telling the truth. "Very well," he finally allowed. "I'll let you lot off the hook. But if I catch any mischief from any of you-"

"Yes, yes," the bearded ghost snorted with a roll of his eyes. "Are we free to go then? I have much to do today and you're holding me up."

"On your way, then," England grumbled. The bearded ghost disappeared with a pop like a Christmas cracker, while the hooded ghost vanished as easily as a melting snowflake. Only the glowing wisp of a ghost remained, smiling at him.

"What do you want?" England sighed. "You're all free to go."

"You seem unhappy," she said softly. "Are you perhaps suffering from a similar madness that griped Ebenezer?"

"I am perfectly sane and happy, thank you."

"But there is an emptiness in your heart. It has not festered as much as it did for Ebenezer, but it exists all the same."

"Utter rubbish!"

"Not at all, my friend. You may enjoy Christmas as much as any man, but there is something that nags at you this time of year. An old hurt. A lost friend. You can't hide from me."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," England snapped. "And if you could kindly keep out of my business-"

The ghost moved too fast for England to dodge. In an instant she moved from across the room to only a pace away. Before England could step back, she reached out and touched his forehead lightly with a single glowing finger.

The next few seconds were pure vertigo, and England was terribly glad that he hadn't eaten anything that morning or it surely would have come back up again. After a small eternity, his feet found sturdy ground again. He clamped a hand over his hammering heart and glared at the ghost.

"Did I not make myself clear? I don't want any of your help or intervention!"

"But it is for your own good," she said simply, entirely unshaken by the magic or his anger. "Hush now. Look around you."

England looked. The room had changed entirely. He was no longer in a dreary, drafty hall. This was a small bedroom, cozy and simple. Recognition hit him like a punch in the stomach. This was a room in America's old house, from back when he was a colony. It had been burned down during the revolution, by accident or arson he was never sure, but here it was again. And this was the room England stayed in whenever he came to visit...

England stared at the body inhabiting the bed. Even with only half a face visible above the blankets, he could easily recognize it as himself. He could never mistake his own eyebrows. And that second lump under the blankets, curled up against the younger England's chest...

England's throat tightened as he watched his younger self stir and slowly wake up, blinking sleepily. He frowned, and peeled the blankets back, earning a protesting squeak from his bed-mate.

"Quit, Engwand! It's too cold!" America whined, scooting further down the bed to bury himself in blankets again.

"When did you get here, lad?" the younger England asked, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. "I did tuck you into your own bed, didn't I?"

"Uh huh," came a muffled reply from under the quits.

"Then what are you doing here? Bad dreams again?"

"No. It's just really cold tonight, and it's lots warmer to sleep with you! I can stay, can't I? I'm gonna freeze if I have to sleep all alone!" America's head poked out from under the blankets to give England a pleading look.

"Oh dear, I can't have a frozen colony," England laughed, pulling the blankets back up. "And I can't kick you out of bed on Christmas night either, can I?"

The tiny lump burrowed up the bed through the blankets like a mole until he was settled back near England's chest again, inching up until only his nose was exposed past the quilt.

"But you can only stay if you promise to be good," the younger England added. "No waking me up too early, unless there's an emergency, and don't steal all the blankets and try not to-"

"I won't," America mumbled around a yawn. "I'll be really good." His eyes slipped closed, but he still reached out and grabbed England's wrist, pulling his arm over until it was curled snugly around America's back.

The scene faded, and England had to gulp a few times before he could speak. "And what was the point of showing me that?" he asked the ghost harshly. "All that happened ages ago, and-"

"But it is a fond memory, isn't it?" the glowing spirit said softly. "A fond memory, but one that you have locked away for years."

"Fine, I haven't been thinking about those years with America lately. Is that what you want me to say? There isn't much sense in dwelling on a former colony. Now take me back, you've shown me enough-"

"We have more to see still." The scene shifted again, thankfully without that horrid falling sensation this time. It was the old colonial house again, but many year later. Handmade wreaths decorated the walls, and England sat at the table with his hands over his eyes.

"Can I look yet?" he called out.

"No!" America shouted from another room. He voice had grown deeper over the years. "Your present isn't ready yet! No peeking, or you don't get your present!"

"You had better close your eyes too," the ghost said with a smile.

"No need," England sighed. "I remember this Christmas. He was so excited about his present for me..."

America tiptoed back into the room, sneaking a quick look at England to make sure his eyes were still covered before opening the wooden box he brought along with him and pulling out a fiddle. He readied the instrument, tucked it under his chin, moved his mouth silently as he counted to five and finally began to play. The first few bars of a simplified, shaky version of 'The Boar's Head' filled the room. However flawed the performance was, England uncovered his eyes at once, beaming at the younger.

"Well done!" the younger England said happily, applauding when America stopped. "When did you learn to play? I don't think I've ever seen you play any instrument before..."

"I've been learning for the past few years," America answered proudly as he adjusted a few strings. "I don't think I had started yet when you last visited me. It was a long time ago!"

"Oh." The younger England deflated a little. "Now you-...you know we've talked about this, how there will often be large gaps between my visits since there is an ocean separating-"

"I didn't mean anything by it!" America said frantically, "And it's probably good that you haven't been here in years. It gave me more time to learn the fiddle without you knowing! Makes it a better surprise, right?"

"Indeed." The smile and warmth was back, as though it had never left. "It's a wonderful surprise."

"Alright, what do you want me to play next? I'll play anything you want!"

The room faded to black so abruptly it made England stagger backwards. "We could have stayed for at least one more song," he said sourly to the ghost, who still hovered innocently by his side.

"I'm afraid we must move on," the ghost said with a quiet hum. "But why are you reluctant to leave? Didn't you wish to forget your young friend?"

England had to stop and grope for his answer for a moment. "It's not that-...well, there were some happier times that I don't...don't mind recalling every once in a while." But what was the point? He could never return to those times, to the quiet happiness of the earlier days...

A room reformed around them. The colonial house was gone, as was America. England was alone, slumped over a table. A bottle of brandy was open on the table next to him, partially empty and ignored by the nation. Music could be heard faintly through the walls, German Christmas carols.

England tensed. This wasn't a year he wanted to think about.

"It is 1776 now," the ghost reminded him.

"I know that!" England snapped. "I know perfectly well what that year was like. I spent that Christmas coped up in Trenton with a mess of noisy Hessians and..." And he had spent most of the night wondering where America was, if he was ready to give up that ridiculous rebellion, if he was warm and safe, if he...was thinking about England too. It was just as well that the Hessians had largely ignored him in favor of their own festivities. He remembered that he drank too much that night, and the alcohol mixed with his miserable mood to turn him into an embarrassingly soppy mess. Right on cue, the past England gave a suspicious sniffle and buried his head in his arms.

"I had a cold," England hastily lied to the ghost.

"Of course, the weather is dreadful tonight," the ghost whispered. "And do you know where America was on that cold night?"

"Yes, I do. You don't need to show me, I know-"

But the scene was already shifting, and England found himself on a river bank. He inhaled sharply when the chill off the water struck him in the face and hunkered down into his coat.

"Look there," said the ghost, pointing.

Reluctantly, England lifted his head and followed the finger. A cluster of Continental soldiers were guiding boats to shore through the gloom and chunks of ice that littered the water. He didn't want to get a closer look. He wanted to go ihome/i, but something propelled his forward, crunching awkwardly over the frozen ground. He was almost close enough to make out faces when the next boat made landfall.

"Password?" one of the men on shore called softly to the boat.

"V-victory or d-d-death!" a youthful voice called back, shuddering with cold. The man nodded, extending a hand to help the speaker out. England didn't even need to look. He knew that voice all too well. America's face was red and chapped from the elements, and even from several paces away England could see him shivering. And then, like magic, he lit up, straightened his back proudly. England couldn't tell what had caused the change, until he turned to see who America was looking at. General Washington was walking through past the soldiers, giving orders in a hushed tone, before stopping in front of America and giving him a little pat on the shoulder. Through the cold and strain, America's face iglowed/i. England's chest panged. That look of pure adoration, that look used to be reserved for England. No longer, he had been replaced. There was no place in America's heart for him anymore, not when he was willing to work so hard just to be rid of him...

"Take me back," he whispered to the ghost, fearing his voice would crack if he raised it. The ghost for once listened to his request, and Scrooge's old hall materialized around them once more. "Are you done with your...your visions?"

"Yes. That is all I have to show you. And what will you do now?"

"Now? I'll..." What_ was _he going to do now? A sharp hollow had grown in his chest. Perhaps it could be filled with spiced rum.

"Haven't you learned anything from what I showed you?"

"Heavens no," England growled, struggled to disguise the tension in his throat. "I already knew everything you showed me."

"Then you already knew that you are plagued with regret, even now?"

England froze, but recovered quickly. "Every man has regrets-"

"Yes, but will you choose to let them eat at your heart little by little over the years, or work to fix what is broken? You are luckier than Ebenezer. I showed him visions of someone who is already gone from the world. The one you care for is still alive, and it is never too late to make amends."

"Y-you don't understand how things are between us. Years of sour relations-"

"Much like Ebenezer and his nephew," the ghost interrupted. "But if you would follow the old man, you would see him mending the old wounds as we speak. It can be done."

"America tried...he tried to ask me to be his friend again, right after the revolution. And I-I as good as slammed the door in his face."

The ghost was fading, a snow drift vanishing in the wind. "And what a wonderful day to try to start over. Anything is possible on a day like today." With that, she was gone.

England was left standing alone, in the house of a bitter old man who had learned to smile again. _Anything was possible. _

His feet felt oddly light as he walked back, drafting an overdue letter in his head on the way. _To my younger brother...we haven't spoken in ages, but there are a few things I would like to say..._


End file.
